I hope you wrote that in pencil...

Well, somehow the idiot who owns the house we're renting managed to sell it out from under us WHILE WE'RE STILL LIVING HERE.

Hmm... can you tell how I feel about living through multiple home showings while working full-time and taking care of a small child without the aide of a nanny, babysitter, or guide dog? Oh wait, I know JUST how I feel - exactly like I did last August when we were selling our OWN house. It's one thing to clean up for viewings when you own the house, but cleaning up a rental, to help the jackass who decided to sell it for way lower than it's worth at the worst of the market just so he can kick you out on the the street is downright depressing.

(And no, Boo is not a guide dog. Ever since the kid came into our household Boo spends the majority of his time laying on the arm of the couch and rolling his pug eyes, saying, "It wasn't MY idea to add him to our family. Your bright idea, YOUR problem.")

So we'll be moving again, in about a month. Yes, dickhead agreed to a 30-day escrow, even though our lease is up in October. I'm not even going to figure out how many times we will have moved counting this next upcoming one. I'll have to dive head-first into a giant vat of Death by Chocolate ice cream and freeze my sorrows.

There are pros of course - and it all must be happening for some reason that will make sense after all the boxes have been unpacked and change-of-address forms have been filled out. But I can't help but be sad a bit, not for leaving this house, but for giving up the security of owning our own home in Seattle. We'll own again, and soon. But until then, we'll continue to be modern-day, minivan-driving surburban gypsies.

Depot Depot

Today Jase, Charlie and I went to Depot Depot (aka Home Depot). Jase was talking to two employees who were NOT Olympic athletes (I guess if they were, they would be in Beijing - but based on the beer gut and neck tattoo, I think I would be pretty safe in saying that even if it wasn't August 2008) I had to distract Charlie, to keep him from yelling, "Daddy, whatcha doin?" 73 times.

Charlie decided he wanted to push the cart. By himself. "Charlie do it, Mommy." Since it was Monday afternoon and not crowded I figured this was the perfect distraction.

We turned to go down an aisle ("Turn left, Mommy!") and he was pushing so slowly, paying such attention. His little tongue was sticking out of his mouth in concentration. But it still was veering way to the left.

Eventually, he crashed it into the shelves. He looked at me, and clear as a bell, said, "That wasn't supposed to happen."